Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Mr. Beaumont, he’s in a wheelchair. He can’t even stand on his own two feet. You ever hear of anyone calling him a crip, or a gimp?”

“I never did.”

“Right! Maybe they did when he was a kid, before he… before he made himself something. But now he’s a man that’s got everybody’s respect. Everybody wants to be Mr. Beaumont’s friend. You wouldn’t believe the people who come to his house. Like they’re visiting a king!”

“And you’re going to be a king, someday, Harley?”

“You’re going to be a doctor, aren’t you?”

Holden watched as the kerchief-covered head moved closer to the silhouetted flattop. He waited for the sex sounds, but they never came.

1959 October 04 Sunday 22:02

Dett drove slowly past a weak red neon VACANCY sign into a graded dirt clearing that housed a ramshackle collection of individual cabins. He parked the Impala in a patch of shadow and got out, a single suitcase in his hand. He walked toward a flat-roofed building with bilious lemony light spilling from its single window.

“Checkout’s at noon,” a wizened man in a stained blue vest worn over a faded-to-gray shirt said, placing a key on the countertop and palming the bill sitting there in the same motion. He studiously avoided eye contact.

Dett went back to the Impala, drove past Unit 11, into the unpaved darkness just beyond the parking lot. After taking a single suitcase from the trunk, he walked back to the empty cottage, turned the key, and let himself in.

1959 October 05 Monday 01:24

“He’s back.”

“Log him in, Dave.”

“I already did, Mack. I wonder what that cop wants this time.”

“Money,” the older man said.

“How can you know that?”

“See how he’s moving? Not parking where he did before. Not watching the house. He’s going around back.”

“Maybe he’s just scouting.”

“We know there’s nothing back there-not one car or person since we’ve been sitting here. Shouldn’t take him more than a couple of minutes to find out the same thing.”

“So?”

“So,” Mack said, “if he’s gone more than that, he’s doing business.”

1959 October 05 Monday 01:29

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Ruth said to Lola, as she fastened the last of the straps on the leather harness. The girl was on all fours, positioned on a raised platform that had been covered with a deep shag carpet, backed with a heavy layer of foam. “But I’ll be right outside the door. If there’s anything, anything, that gets you upset, all you have to do is say something.”

“You’re not going to-?”

“Those bitches never stop gossiping, do they? No, there’s not going to be any gag in your mouth. That’s a different trick. The men who like that, they know who to ask for. Like Brenda. She’s the one who told you, isn’t she?”

“She was just trying to-”

“-scare you out of this session,” Ruth finished for her. “You know why? Because she wants it for herself. When you’re all done, you’ll be hoping your card comes up next time, you’ll see.”

“Okay…”

“I’m going to put this on real loose,” Ruth said, gently draping a black muslin hood over the girl’s head. “You can breathe right through it, see?”

“I… Yes.”

“I’m going to turn out the lights as I leave. You won’t see him come in. And you won’t hear him, either. He’s not going to say a word.”

“Do I have to-?”

“No, you don’t have to say anything, either. I told you, he’s not that kind of trick. All you have to remember is to relax. Don’t tighten up. You cleaned yourself out, with what I gave you to take, yes?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Lola. You be good, now,” Ruth said. She patted the girl gently on her framed-and-displayed bottom, and left the room.

1959 October 05 Monday 01:54

“Can’t sleep, Beau?”

“I tried, honey. But even with my eyes closed, I kept seeing things. Things I should be doing.”

“What you should be doing is sleeping. It’s almost two o’clock in the-”

“I thought I’d work on my charts, Cyn.”

“You and those charts,” she snorted, affectionately. “It’s a good thing we’ve got so much room on the walls here.”

“You want to help?”

“What could I do, Beau? I don’t know any of the-”

“You help just by being here, Cyn. With me. Every time I have something to figure out, you just being there, it helps me. Makes things clear. Come on, what do you say?”

“I’ll make us some coffee,” Cynthia said, smiling.

1959 October 05 Monday 02:12

As Dett was eating directly from a white carton of chicken chow mein, chewing each mouthful slowly, Rufus was prowling Room 809 of the Claremont Hotel. In his hand was a flashlight, its face taped so that only a sliver of the beam shone through. He had left the door slightly ajar. Every other guest on this floor already in his room, he recited, comforting himself. This hour, they all asleep. Any man get off that elevator at two o’clock in the morning, got to be Mr. Dett. And got to be drunk, too.

Outside the room, two men waited, both dressed in what would pass for the maintenance coveralls issued by the hotel. If a white man, any white man, emerged from the elevator, one of them would alert Rufus. Then they would walk toward the man, waving their arms in silent, heated argument, blocking his view and delaying his passage. They were large, bulky men, so similar in appearance they could pass for brothers. Anyone getting off the elevator was not going to just stroll past them. And the back staircase was only seconds away, in the opposite direction.

Papers and numbers, Rufus thought, gingerly probing the contents of the chest of drawers. No. He shifted his attention to the desk, but again came up empty. The flashlight’s softly focused light played over the largest suitcase, the one Rosa Mae had said contained the mojo. Hoodoo bullshit, Rufus said to himself, like Silk thinking Mr. Dett’s real name is Mr. Scratch. But he didn’t open it.

Where’s the other suitcase? And that little case, too?

But a search of the closet drew a blank.

Never mind, Rufus assured himself. I already got what I came for.

1959 October 05 Monday 02:16

“He’s always at the top, isn’t he?” Cynthia said, pointing to a large rectangular piece of white oaktag, taped to the wall lengthwise. On its glossy surface was a collection of names, written in black grease pencil. Each name was circled, connected by lines to the others. The effect was as neat and orderly as a school presentation.

“Ernest Hoffman? Sure, honey. And he’s always going to be. I remember a word I read once. I don’t remember the book or anything, but that word, it always stayed with me. ‘Kingmaker.’ You see how strong that word is? There’s been four different governors of this state since the war. Only Jake Moore has managed to hold two terms, and he’s up again, soon. They come and go, but Hoffman, he’s always there. He’s the man who calls the shots.”

“Because he owns the newspaper?”

“That’s just a piece of it, honey. There’s a lot of papers around the state. Here, we’ve got the Compass. But only the Union Messenger goes statewide. Most people, they take two papers, the local and Hoffman’s. Plus, he’s got the radio stations, three of them. I’m pretty sure he owns Channel 29, too.

“And, see over there,” Beaumont said, pointing to the extreme left side of his chart, “besides everything else, he’s got the unions in his pocket. You know why? The same reason he’s got the governor. Because he decides who gets to be president of the locals. A kingmaker.”

“But he doesn’t touch anything of ours. Or of anyone else you have on that chart, Beau.”